


Noblesse Oblige

by crankypanda



Category: Big Bang (Band), History (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 02:08:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9695075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crankypanda/pseuds/crankypanda
Summary: Kyungil is a pain in Yijeong's ass. Figuratively speaking. (For now.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Royal!AU, with T.O.P as the Prince, Kyungil as his chaebol best friend, and Yijeong as the Prince's personal assistant/object of the best friend's affections. I blame the "Queen" MV for all those shots of Kyungil in a suit, _Goong_ for exploring the idea of a modern-day Korean monarchy, and myself for being so curious about the difference between black tie and white tie.

"This seems a bit much," Prince Seunghyun says, surveying his reflection in the full-length mirror. "Why can't we just go with one of my old tuxes? I have at least a dozen of them in my closet."

From his position on the floor, crouched by the Prince's feet, Yijeong resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Because this is a white tie event," he says as he examines the left dress shoe, ensuring that every inch of patent leather is gleaming. "Tuxedos are for black tie events, and would thus be wildly inappropriate. Your mother would be disappointed, your sister would be embarrassed, and the press would have a field day." He meets the Prince's stubborn gaze in the mirror.

"I disappoint Her Majesty on a regular basis," the Prince says dismissively. "And noona's just given birth to the future King, she couldn't care less about her dongsaeng."

"And the press?" Yijeong asks, shifting his focus to the right shoe. For the umpteenth time that afternoon, his phone buzzes in his pocket. For the umpteenth time that afternoon, he ignores it.

"I'm sure the fourth estate has more important things to write about," the Prince says.

"Your Highness' sartorial choices are a matter of public interest," Yijeong says.

The Prince gives him a look that says _I know you only call me Your Highness when you're feeling sassy,_ but allows Yijeong to check the rest of his outfit in peace. He sees to it that just the right amount of shirt sleeve is peeking out from underneath the tailcoat, that the waistcoat falls below the trousers' waistline, and that all cuff links, suspenders, and buttons are securely fastened.

The final touches - a gold pocket watch, a pair of mother-of-pearl cuff links, a _mugunghwa_ boutonniere, and the obligatory white bow tie - lie on individual velvet pillows carefully laid out on a side table. Yijeong picks up the bow tie. "Shall I do the honors?"

It's a rhetorical question, because if there's anything Yijeong's learned from a year of working in the Palace, it's that the Prince, despite his cold, forbidding appearance, is actually a giant baby. He can't cook (but he can certainly drink), he can't drive (though not for lack of trying - his failed driving test made headlines last year), and he mosty certainly can't tie anything more complex than sneaker laces. It's a testament to the Prince's strange charm that Yijeong's grown fond of him despite his general uselessness.

"Please," the Prince says, and obediently bends forward so that Yijeong can drape the tie around his neck and get to work. A year ago, he'd never even seen a bowtie that wasn't already tied. But constant practice has turned him into an expert, and he finishes the bow in no time.

"It's kind of ironic, don't you think?" the Prince says.

"What is, Your Highness?" Yijeong asks, turning back to the table to pick up one cuff link. His phone buzzes again.

"All of this," the Prince says as he holds out one arm. "This ball is supposed to be for the benefit of the underprivileged, yet it's the most obscene display of wealth I've ever seen. Do you know how much a ticket costs?"

Yijeong does, in fact, know how much a ticket costs. It's more than what he makes in a year. It's more than what he makes in _two_ years.

"All proceeds go to various charities," he says as he aligns the holes on either side of the shirt cuff and inserts the cuff link. "Those charities help the underprivileged." _Like me,_ he almost adds.

"People could just gives directly to a charity," the Prince points out.

"Some people would like to see a return on their investment," Yijeong says, and fastens the cuff link.

"You mean they want to be publicly congratulated for their selfless generosity," the Prince says dryly.

Yijeong makes a noncommittal noise. Even though the Prince has come to treat him more like a friend than an employee, he still watches his words. They are, after all, in the Palace; there's no telling who might be listening. "Your other arm, please."

He's just finished putting in the other cuff link when the door bursts open, a familiar figures strides in, and Yijeong's day abruptly takes a turn for the worse.

Song Kyungil is a number of things.

Number one: he's Prince Seunghyun's best friend, has been ever since they attended the same posh preschool. As such, he's one of the few outsiders with access to the Prince's private quarters, which allows him to intrude with impunity.

Number two: he's chaebol spawn, the product of a merger between two of South Korea's largest conglomerates. 

Number three: he's a Dispatch favorite, due to his propensity for causing scenes in nightclubs and his string of high-profile relationships, each one more scandalous than the last.

Number four: he's incredibly attractive - tall and sinewy, with a chiseled jawline that rivals the Prince's - which is probably another reason for number three. He's also well aware of it, which is probably the reason for number five.

Number five: he's a pain in Yijeong's ass. Figuratively speaking.

"Why aren't you answering your phone?" Kyungil demands. Yijeong quickly busies himself with the pocket watch.

Prince Seunghyun is completely unruffled by the sudden interruption. "I don't have my phone on me," he says. "Yijeong says it'll ruin the line of my pants."

In his peripheral vision, Yijeong sees Kyungil's gaze shift towards him. He pointedly ignores him. His own phone's practically burning a hole in his pocket, but he knows better than to check it now.

"Well if _Yijeong_ says it will," Kyungil says mockingly. Yijeong doesn't have to look at him to know he's smirking.

He concentrates on threading the watch chain through the second buttonhole on the Prince's waistcoat, then places the watch itself inside the left pocket, making sure the chain hangs in a nice curve.

"Where are you seated?" the Prince asks as Yijeong carefully positions the boutonnière on his right lapel. The rose is a perfect specimen, a profusion of white petals gathered around a blood-red core, freshly plucked from the palace gardens.

"Table twenty-eight," Kyungil says disdainfully. Yijeong hasn't seen the seating chart, but it sounds much too far from the royal dais for someone of his stature. "I might as well sit with the hired help at this rate."

Yijeong pushes the boutonnière into place with a little more force than necessary.

"Kyungil," the Prince says reproachfully.

"What?" Kyungil asks. He actually sounds confused, the prat. Yijeong glances up and sees that he's sprawled on the Louis XV chaise longue by the window, impossibly long legs stretched out before him. He winks at Yijeong.

Yijeong clenches his jaw. "I think Your Highness is ready," he tells the Prince, and steps back.

Prince Seunghyun studies his reflection in the mirror, turning this way and that. "I guess this is as good as it's going to get," he says at length, which is frankly a bit insulting, considering how absurdly handsome he is.

"I'm sure your fansites will show only your very best angles," Kyungil drawls. "Yijeong will make sure of it."

Yijeong pretends not to notice him. "If Your Highness needs me," he says, addressing the only person in the room worthy of his attention, "I'll be outside." Without waiting for the Prince's response, he makes a curt bow and slips out of the room.

He doesn't dare take his phone out until he's successfully navigated the maze of corridors leading out of the royal apartments and into the bustling common area. He settles into a Chippendale armchair in a remote corner, half-hidden behind a gigantic Ming vase.

He has thirteen missed calls and twenty-five unread messages, all from the same person. He skips the first twenty-four messages and goes straight to the most recent one.

_Walking out? How mature,_ it reads.

Yijeong often wonders how Kyungil got his number. Occam's razor points to Prince Seunghyun, but Yijeong likes to think the Prince, who guards his privacy jealously, would have asked him first. Not that he'll ever bring it up. That would mean admitting that he actually acknowledges Kyungil's existence.

He sits back and watches people come and go for precisely seven minutes. He doesn't want to appear too eager; he has better things to do than respond to bored lordlings.

_Because pestering me when you know I'm working is the height of maturity,_ he eventually types back.

The reply is instantaneous. _Giving the Prince misguided fashion advice counts as work?_

Yijeong frowns. _Misguided?_ he asks, only belatedly remembering the seven-minute rule. 

_You put the boutonnière on his right lapel,_ comes the reply.

Yijeong blanches. He looks up, scanning the crowd. Sure enough, every man is sporting some kind of flower - mostly roses of all colors, but there are also a few carnations and gardenias - on his left lapel.

_It's supposed to go on the left,_ Kyungil helpfully adds.

Yijeong prides himself on being thorough. As it was announced that the Prince would be hosting the gala in the Crown Princess' stead, he read everything he could on white tie, meticulously researching every article of clothing, each accessory, all possible combinations of colors and materials. He covered everything - except, it seems, where to put the fucking boutonnière.

_Don't worry, hyung fixed it for you._

Yijeong can feel the smugness radiating all the way from the other end of the Palace. He locks his phone and slips it back into his pocket, vowing not to touch it until the end of the evening.

He heads to the employee locker room to get changed into his outfit for the evening. The suit is plain and simple, bordering on drab, deliberately designed for Palace staff to blend into the background while the glitterati shine.

He's fiddling with his tie, trying to get the knot just right, when the guy next to him passes him a sheet of paper.

"Seating chart," he says.

Yijeong automatically skips over the first few tables, because they're clearly reserved for the usual assortment of nobles, politicians, and industrialists, with the odd celebrity here and there. When he finally finds his name, among the rabble near the bottom, he feels his eye twitch.

_Table twenty-eight._


End file.
